


darling, stay with me

by ghostuser901



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Argument Resolution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Canon, Post-Endgame, References to Depression, a character throws up, references to mental illness, talking about feelings, tony stark is terrible at communicating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostuser901/pseuds/ghostuser901
Summary: For the prompt: could you do peter being sick of tony always regarding him as the straight laced good kid so he starts smoking weed and maybe drinking a little to kind of 'prove' he's not?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015824
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	darling, stay with me

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill, she's form my [tumblr](https://saltystarker.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Yes, the title is from a Sam Smith song, no i will not be taking suggestions at this time.
> 
> Now in [Russian ](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10136794/26083022)

“Tony Stark, man, now that’s a class A asshole if I ever saw one,” Luke says, taking a long pull from his beer bottle, finishing it off and bending to pick another one. “Man’s got more money than I can sense, an’ wha’s he done with it, huh. Sits in that tower all day, countin’ ir, s’far as I can tell. Let me tell you…”

Peter nods drunkenly along, aware that the whole table seem to be agreeing, face burning as his hand rubs reflexively over the Stark Industries logo on the tags of his hoodie. He has vague memories of how he ended up here, friends of friends dragging him from one bar to the next to where he sits now, shoved in the corner of a booth, trapped, as some guy he’s never met prattles on about Tony. Tony Stark, asshole extraordinaire. Peter’s boyfriend.

It’s a strange thing. They don’t fight often, Peter and Tony, but when they do. Well, when they do. Let’s just say it isn’t pretty, and tonight, it’s brought him here.

He gets it, okay? When he’d first met Tony years ago he’d had that wide eyed glow of youth mixed with his near embarrassing levels of hero worship and childhood crush. He was innocent, he supposed, as much as one can be when they’ve seen too much of the world already, far too much for such a young age.

It was because of that, because of the terrible things that had happened to him that made him want to be good, want to be better. He always had his homework in on time, always buttoned his shirt collars, tied his laces. And above all, he always helped others whenever he could. Hell, after the spider bite he’d made it his life’s mission.

He can understand where Tony is coming from, is his point. He had been innocent, good, in everything, but especially around Tony, blushing as the humour turned more adult, stumbling over his words, shying away from any mentions of his crush.

After they’d got together, it had only become more pronounced. He had naturally took on a more submissive role, especially in bed, liked the way Tony would take care of him, liked folding himself into his arms at the end of a long day, liked everything about the feeling of being loved by Tony Stark.

Yet, at the same time, he likes to think that he’s never been afraid to speak his mind. He’s never backed away from quipping straight back at Tony, from sarcasm or jokes. He’s not exactly a prude either, he’s done and said things that would have Tony blushing, has had, in fact.

But tonight he’s here. All because Tony had to make one comment. One comment that apparently the entire team had overheard. And talked about. Repeatedly.

And, Peter. Well. Peter disagreed. He’s had enough of being treated like a child, after all this time, after everything they’ve been through, he can’t believe that Tony still sees him as that innocent kid he met all those years ago. He died. Peter had died, snapped away from existence for five years. If that wasn’t enough to mature him, he doesn’t know what is.

So now he’s here, in a seedy bar down a back alley, drinking cheap beer with a bunch of strangers. It’s not even about proving Tony wrong, like he’d originally planned. Now he just wants to forget the whole fight in the first place, forget about the hurtful words, forget he even exists. Just for tonight.

The spider bite, though amping up his healing factor, also amps up his susceptibility to alcohol’s effects. So basically, he has to keep drinking continuously if he wants to stay drunk. And, boy, does he want to tonight.

Luke is still going, still about Tony gathering from the rude gesture he’s making, and Peter is happily nodding along, room spinning slowly with each bob of his head. He feels warm, he realises, very warm. There’s something prickling down his neck, spreading over his arms. It’s like thousands of tiny electric shocks. It feels like something he should remember. Something he should pay attention to.

Windows shatter, spraying the bar crowd in shards of glass. People scream, ducking, throwing themselves under tables. The air smells strongly of smoke, leaving behind a strong taste of metal.

Peter jerks his head towards the front and the world sways. He grabs onto the table for balance, takes a few steadying breaths through his mouth, tries to make out the shadows flowing through the smoke. Everything feels fuzzy, slow. Time twists in and out like the turns of a rollercoaster, the bar falling silent, waiting.

He needs to do something, needs to help. Something bad. Something bad is going to happen. He can feel it down to his bones, but his senses are too dim, too sluggish, it feels like he’s wading through syrup. He twists, tries to stand. Can’t.

A strangled shout leaves his throat, five seconds too late.

He falls.

And he falls.

And he falls…

—

He wakes up to nothing.

White, everything is white, he can feel the brightness of it even through his closed eyes. Every cell in his body hurts, his head most of all, pulsing behind his eyes, getting stronger and stronger the further he returns to consciousness.

The air smells sterile, clear. Hospital. There’s some sort of sheet wrapped round him, he can feel it pressing him down into the mattress he’s lying on. Someone is holding his hand. Their palm is warm over his, callouses rough against his skin as they sooth backwards and forwards, rubbing gentle circles against him.

He can hear them breathing too, deep, in and out, in and out. It hitches. His eyes snap open.

Tony is sitting beside him, staring down unseeingly at his lap, shoulders hunched tight and curled in on himself. Peter watches a tear track its way down his face and his chest constricts. He has to speak to him, has to ask what’s wrong but his throat isn’t working, and instead he starts coughing, gasping in lungfuls of air.

Tony’s head jerks up, hand coming up to pull him into sitting, rubbing circles into his back. He hands him a glass of water, and Peter gulps it down. Bad idea. He chokes, clutches at Tony as nausea rushes through him.

Tony just holds him through it, handing him a bowl to throw up into, murmuring soft words as Peter shakes and heaves. When he’s done, he slumps back against the pillows, and Tony gets up to go find a nurse.

He’s likely to have a headache for a few days, the smoke damage and the alcohol not helping the shockwaves from the explosion that have hashed up his senses. Just another asshole that was angry at the world. Peter had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s to look out for dizziness, nausea, any hearing changes. His powers should heal him up fine, though, and he’s discharged by next morning with strict instructions to take it easy.

They go to Tony’s rooms in the tower, better than his cramped flat in the city, plus he’s always said the bed is like a cloud. Tony’s uncharacteristically quiet, and gentle. He makes sure to give him enough water and nutrients, gets him more pillows for him to sleep, lets him choose whatever movies he wants. It’s driving him crazy.

“You need anything else; I can get you some more blankets if you’re cold?” Tony offers from where he’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked under him, purposefully not touching.

Peter is currently cocooned under three blankets. He is decidedly not cold. He nods anyway, let’s Tony get up and come back with another huge fluffy blanket, handing it out to him. Peter grabs hold of his wrist instead, and their eyes lock and hold.

“Come sit down with me,” Peter says, and he hates it, hates how small he sounds.

Tony smiles, tight, and Perches himself on the edge of the couch next to Peter, who huffs, but lets go of his wrist. Tony immediately turns to face the movie, leaving Peter to stare at the back of his neck and wonder how bad exactly he’s fucked this up.

“Tony,” he says, fighting against tears. He wont cry. He will not. He takes a breath, lets it fill him, releases it slowly. “Tony,” he says again, louder, steady. “Will you please look at me?”

Tony turns, eyes rimmed red. God, Peter hates it when he cries.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, hands coming out to rub at the small of Tony’s back.

“I, you really need to ask, ki- Peter,” he says, and he sounds genuinely confused. “This, this is all my fault, if I had just shut up for five seconds this never- ”

Peter cuts him off with a wounded noise. “Tony, this is not, how can you possibly think. I’m the one that left without letting you explain, I’m the one that got too drunk to pay attention, to-”

“Yeah, but who’s fault is it that you left in the first-”

“Don’t,” Peter says, and its firm, assured in a way he usually isn’t. “Do not blame yourself for this. My decision. My actions.” He throws his hands up, gesturing at himself. “My consequences.”

“But-”

“No, Tony.”

Tony sighs, scrubbing at his face, mumbling something about stubbornness. He’s not wrong, Peter is absolutely not going to let him win, and they both know it.

“Yknow,” Tony starts, looking wary, “when I call you kid, or baby, or, or anything like, like that, when I said what I said I. I don’t. I need you to know I don’t.” He heaves a breath in, frustrated. “I’m shit at this part, Pete, I’m sorry.”

Peter hums. He’s not going to argue so he waits, patient.

“I. You. You are the most incredible, the, the strongest person, no, the strongest man I know, that I’ll ever know, Peter Parker. And I know that I, I can be a bit much, on the, uh, affectionate? side of things. It’s just,” he stops again, here, runs a hand shakily through his hair. “Look I know, I can see that you’ve changed, you’ve grown up, I know who you are, ba- Peter. Peter. I know you’re not just, uh, just-”

Peter reaches out for Tony’s hands, grasping them tight in his. “You really are shit at this, huh?” he says, smiling, delighted when Tony smiles back. He’s hopeless, but they both are really.

“I don’t need you to, to stop calling me baby, or stop trying to take care of me, or stop making jokes about my, my backpack or my shoes or whatever,” Peter says, soft smile still in place. “I just need you to know that that’s not all I am, anymore. I’ve changed a lot in the past few years, Tony, and not always for the better.”

Tony smiles, and Peter knows, doesn’t have to imagine, what Tony’s thinking. The nightmares, the anxiety. The days Peter can’t force himself to leave the tower, to leave his rooms, sticking to the walls, the ceiling, not wanting to come back down to reality. The nights he wakes up sobbing, clinging himself to Tony’s side, or calling him at four in the morning, just to hear him breathe.

There are days where he’s just so, so angry, so totally enraged by the world, by everything that’s happened, that he can’t speak to anybody without snapping, going down to the training room to spend hours mechanically taking apart anything he can get his hands on. Days where he’s so sad he could drown in it.

But there are good days. Great days. When it comes down to it, he always finds his way back. He hasn’t quite lost his love of life, his spark. He’s still excitable, still happy. He has his friends, and his Aunt May, and Queens, his to look after, to protect. And he has Tony.

He thinks maybe some of this is showing through, because Tony is doing that funny scrunchy thing he does with his face when he’s feeling too much, when he’s too much in love. Peter still can’t quite believe he gets to know what that looks like.

“I know,” Tony says, in answer. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too. Forgive me?” Peter asks, though he’s really asking if Tony can forgive himself.

Tony smiles, because he knows what Peter’s doing, he’s done it himself enough times. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, sounding unconcerned, but he is sincere. Peter knows he’s sincere. He’s just an idiot. Peter’s idiot.

“Wanna make it up to me?” Peter says, and Tony’s answering smirk is enough in itself. Relief settles itself on his shoulders, chasing away any remaining tension.

“Oh, baby,” he replies, low, exaggerated, so very, very Tony. “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated


End file.
